I’ve come to the conclusion that slowly dying is too demanding a job
to make room for other pointless pursuits, like memorising new words
or ever-so-slightly changing faces, which of course leaves me no choice
but to outsource all the embellishments that are commonly considered
life’s essential ingredients—though it’s not as if I don’t appreciate
an occasional reminder that the regrets we draw from the callow years
are not what stimulate our due desires—and embrace the humble life
of an urban hermit with somewhat perverted interest in death.